Most therapy sessions left me heavier, not lighter.
Yes, they were helpful. But they were also stuck in reverse—my past, my trauma, my patterns. Week after week, we circled the same drain.
That’s probably why they call it “doing the work.” Because it feels like work. Somewhere along the way, healing became synonymous with suffering—as if you had to slog through every inch of your inner battlefield to earn your peace.
And yes, healing isn’t supposed to be easy.
But you don’t have to suffer every step of the way. The more you fixate on what’s broken—your past, your fears, your failures—the more they expand.
That’s not healing. That’s marinating in misery.
For me, real healing began when I brought in something most adults have forgotten:
Play.
Not performative joy. Not toxic positivity. I mean real play—the kind that cracks open your old armor and reminds you: there’s more to you than what hurt you.
The best healers I’ve worked with—truly gifted ones—know how to shift gears. They can hold space for your grief without getting swallowed by it. They know how to balance: a little intensity, a little ease. A deep insight, then a playful moment.
That swing between depth and delight? That’s medicine.
It’s how you build range.
It’s how you let beauty take root in the same soil where harm once lived.
I was once in a therapy session, trying to make sense of a pattern I’d picked apart a dozen times before. At some point, the absurdity hit me, and I burst out laughing: “I’ve been throwing logic at something that isn’t logical.” And just like that, the grip loosened.
There’s something radical about letting yourself feel good before you’ve “earned” it. About laughing in the middle of the mess. About deciding that you don’t need to solve everything before you let yourself live again.
I’ve learned to dance my way through the days that used to take me out. Literally. I’ll put on music in the kitchen and move like I’ve been possessed by the spirit of someone with zero cares.
It’s not a performance. It’s a way to remind my body: you’re safe.
Sometimes when I feel anxious, I ask myself, “Your shame is so boring. What would your desire do?”
That one question can unstick me in ways that analysis never could. Because desire moves. Shame stalls. Desire creates. Shame recycles.
Yes, play can be used to numb or distract—but that’s not what I mean here. This isn’t about ignoring your trauma or slapping a smile over your sadness.
It’s about refusing to let it be the whole story. It’s about remembering that you don’t heal by only looking at what hurt you—you also heal by remembering what lights you up.
Here’s the thing: Your hurt inner child isn’t waiting for more homework. They’re waiting to be seen. To be silly without consequence. To play—not just in metaphor, but in real time, in real ways.
So yes—do the work. Go deep. Grieve. Feel it all.
But don’t forget to dance. Don’t forget to let things be light, even when they feel heavy.
Play isn’t the opposite of healing. It’s the rhythm your healing needs.
Not because it erases the past—but because it reminds you . . .
You’re more than what happened to you.
P.S. I’m handpicking 5 companies for a new online Moonshot Thinking experience—built to embed innovative thinking, experimentation, and AI-powered tools directly into your team’s culture.
This experience takes the same principles I’ve shared with teams at Google X, Microsoft, Disney, and Lululemon—and turns them into a hands-on system your team can use every day to reimagine how you think, work, and lead.
Want in?
👉 Apply here by next Friday, August 1st.
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